


The King of Second Chances

by anodyneer



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Pneumonia, Sickfic, Spoilers, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:58:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anodyneer/pseuds/anodyneer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you spend every waking moment trying to save someone else, sometimes you forget to save yourself. It's a lesson Neal learns the hard way after Peter is arrested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King of Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [coltdancer](http://coltdancer.livejournal.com/) for [WC Pairings](http://wcpairings.livejournal.com/) 2013, and I'm also using it to fill the wild card square on my [HC Bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) 2013 card. Title is from "Bridge Burning" by Foo Fighters.
> 
> MAJOR spoilers for S4, including the finale!
> 
> My amazing and talented friend, kanarek13, surprised me with this beautiful cover art for my 40th birthday! Thank you so very much! <3

  


* * *

The human body may be a wondrous thing, but sometimes it had absolutely horrendous timing. At the very time when he needed to be at the top of his game, Neal Caffrey was coming down with something.

He supposed it was to be expected – he hadn’t been eating or sleeping properly since Peter was arrested for the murder of Senator Pratt. He felt responsible, of course; if he hadn’t brought James into Peter’s life, none of it would have happened. The fact that the judge denied Peter’s bail – this was an FBI agent accused of killing a senator, after all – added more fuel to the fire of guilt burning inside him. Clearing Peter’s name and getting him out of prison had become Neal’s top priority, and he spent every waking minute working toward that goal.

Unfortunately for him, “every waking minute” meant nearly all day, every day. Even after Diana – his temporary handler – forced him to go home for the night, Neal sat in his apartment, poring over evidence and putting together countless scenarios for how they’d free the man who meant so much to him. He stared at the words and photos until everything started to blur, which only meant that he needed more coffee and some fresh air. An espresso and a walk around the terrace kept him going for a while longer, but he eventually had to give in to the exhaustion that was wracking his body.

Slipping between the sheets meant falling into a fitful sleep that only provided a temporary respite. He’d toss and turn, nightmarish scenarios flashing through his mind. Peter sitting all alone in a dimly-lit cell, missing Elizabeth and horribly depressed. There were times when the Peter Burke in his mind would break down, covering his face with his hands and sobbing softly as the reality hit him – his life and career, if they still existed, would never be the same again. 

Other times, Neal watched helplessly from above as Peter was beaten - and worse - in the darkest reaches of the prison, places where guards didn’t dare venture because their lives were worth more than whatever went on there. A fallen Fed would make a great trophy fuck for some fresh fish who was trying to prove himself. Peter wouldn’t be able to sweet talk his way out of it like Neal had. Everybody had liked Neal in prison, but no convict wanted to share space with a man who puts people behind bars for a living.

No matter the nightmare, the bottom line was always the same. Peter’s life and future seemed to be broken beyond repair, and Neal knew that in a roundabout way, it was his fault.

He’d wake from these dreams with a start, soaked with sweat, clutching at the sheets and shaking so hard that he thought his bones might crack like his mind. With the chance for more rest gone, he’d get up and take a shower, long and hot enough to wash away the repulsive shards of his nightmares. He knew it wasn’t normal to feel the traces of a bad dream on his skin, abrasive and vile, but his life had become anything but normal in the days since Peter Burke was arrested and led away in handcuffs.

After forcing down a post-shower coffee, he’d slip out of the house. Without fail, Diana was waiting out front to drag him in to another day at the office. She’d made it clear that she was monitoring his behavior, though he couldn’t tell if it was from genuine concern or because it was part of being his handler. In any case, Neal just pasted on a nearly flawless forgery of his high-wattage smile and glossed over the questions, telling her whatever he thought she needed to hear that morning. Diana, too, was doing everything she could to clear Peter’s name; Neal didn’t want her to waste time worrying about him, so he’d tried to make sure that she didn’t have a reason to do so.

They’d gone through the same routine for days, running on auto-pilot while their confident leader was missing – or more accurately, while he was spending time getting acquainted with the life that Neal had once known. Callaway had been put on administrative leave pending an investigation into her involvement with Pratt, and Bancroft had temporarily taken her place, so at least they were under the watchful eye of someone they could trust. Though the mood was somber, the determination in the air was undeniable. Everyone was working as diligently as they could to prove Peter’s innocence. 

When they actually took breaks, Neal pretended to eat with the rest of them, forcing down bites of food when they were watching and finding all sorts of creative ways to get rid of the rest. He didn’t have the energy to chew and swallow, and the fact that Peter was in prison put Neal in a perpetual state of nausea anyway.

Thankfully, it had taken them only a week to come up with enough evidence to clear Peter’s name. There was no motive for Peter to kill Pratt, but James Bennett had all the motive in the world, lending plenty of credibility to Peter’s version of the events that led up to Bennett shooting Pratt. Neal had turned over the contents of the evidence box – after Mozzie made copies, because he was Mozzie – and the information inside helped prove the extent of the corruption, both Bennett’s and Pratt’s. Then there was the security footage from the surrounding buildings; every camera showed James leaving the scene, dressed in a cleaner’s uniform, just as Peter had said in his statement. In modern-day Manhattan, it was impossible for anyone to get even remotely close to a landmark building without being captured by a dozen high-resolution cameras.

They’d even brought in an expert from the Evidence Response Team to give testimony stating that the trajectory of the bullet which killed Terrence Pratt showed that it was fired by someone several inches shorter than Peter Burke, who was nearly six-foot-three in shoes. James Bennett’s personnel file stated that he was 5’10” tall, which lined up quite nicely with the shot fired into Pratt’s body.

The whole team had worked so tirelessly to get all of their evidence in line, and they knew they were prepared. In everyone’s eyes, including Neal’s, the judge would have no choice but to overturn Peter’s arrest and drop all of the charges against him. Or so they hoped.

As if he didn’t already have enough on his plate, Neal had been presented with a troubling new problem. He’d been feeling unwell since the day after Peter was arrested, and he’d chalked it all up to the stress of the situation, as well as the lack of food and sleep, finally catching up with him. As the week progressed, though, he’d wondered if maybe something more had been added to the mix.

What started out as pressure in his throat two days before Peter’s preliminary hearing had turned into a sore throat and nasty cough by the time he woke up the next morning. He’d tried to fake his way through eating his sandwich at lunch, but the few bites he’d swallowed had felt like barbed wire going down. The rest of the afternoon was spent sitting at his desk in an uncharacteristic slouch, trying desperately to stay awake and upright as his condition quickly worsened. 

“Caffrey!” Diana’s voice brought Neal out of his reverie, and he dropped the pen that he’d been twirling restlessly through his fingers. She was staring down at him with a look that said she wanted to see him immediately. He pushed himself up as quickly as he dared and started heading toward the conference room, where Diana had set up a temporary command center for Peter’s case.

It wasn’t until he reached the bottom of the stairs that Neal was met with a sudden realization – he might not be able to make it to the top. It was only eight short steps, but they looked hopelessly intimidating to Neal, wavering before his eyes like a long desert highway.

“Neal?” Diana came to the top of the stairs and peered down at him. She blurred into two shadowy figures, and then maybe another, before a resolute blink brought her back into some semblance of focus.

Neal could feel eyes on him – Diana’s, and those of everyone else in the office. Whether they made it obvious or not, they were watching him curiously, wondering why he didn’t bound up the steps like he normally did.

So that’s exactly what he tried to do. Neal mustered all of the energy he had left, put one foot in front of the other, and met Diana at the top of the steps. Her eyes were still on him, but mercifully, the others had gone back to their business. She grabbed his arm just above the elbow and steered him into the conference room, shutting the door behind them and motioning for him to sit down.

“Jesus, Caffrey, you look like shit,” she said in a near-whisper, sitting down across from him. Leave it to Diana to cut to the chase. “Are you going to be able to hold it together?”

Neal leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to catch his breath after the trip up the stairs. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just need some sleep.”

His raspy voice startled Diana. “Neal, are you sick? That doesn’t sound like a lack of sleep to me.”

“Think I have a cold or something. Maybe it’s allergies.”

“You don’t have allergies. It would be in your file if you did.” She wasn’t going to let it drop.

Neal groaned and crossed his arms on the table, trying desperately to fight the urge to lay his head down on top of them. “You called me up here for a reason. What was it?”

She stared at him, her expression unreadable. It took a good bit of his energy to hold his eyelids open enough to return her stare. His hands started to shake; he hid them under the table, but not before Diana saw the tremors.

“I was just going to check in with you one more time to see if you had any last-minute things to add.”

“Still couldn’t - ”

“No.” Diana finally looked away, a rare moment of defeat flashing across her face. It was something she never handled well. “You’re a convicted felon, Neal. They won’t let you in.” She shook her head, the bitterness evident as her voice dropped even lower. “It’s not right. You’ve put more into this than most of us, and you deserve to be there. Bastards.”

Neal wanted to say something in agreement. He wanted to be angry, to curse the names of those who wouldn’t let him stand up and show his loyalty for Peter in a court of law. A tiny part of him, the deepest and darkest part that never saw the light of day, wanted to stand up and grab his chair, smash it against the nearest window until it finally gave way, watch the shards cascade down over the city like so many pieces of his soul. Peter had seen that part of him once, and only once – and so had Diana. So had Garrett Fowler. Peter saved him that time, talked him down from the proverbial ledge. 

After the incident with Fowler, Neal had promised himself he’d never let that part of him see the light of day again, especially now. Peter wasn’t there to save his life this time, and he didn’t have the strength left to tame those demons on his own.

So instead, he just nodded in agreement. The room canted, and Neal instinctively shifted to compensate, barely managing to stay upright in the chair. His hands reflexively came up to steady himself, palms hitting the top of the table almost hard enough to startle Diana. Almost.

“Neal.” The bitterness was gone. “You should go home. Give me a minute to wrap things up in the bullpen, and I’ll take you.”

“M’okay,” he mumbled at the table. “Just need coffee.” His body chose that moment to betray him, and he coughed repeatedly into his shoulder. When he finally managed to stop, he was left gasping for breath and trying to ignore the pain in his ribs.

Diana shook her head at him. “Don’t even go there. Any more caffeine and you’ll have a coronary.” When he huffed something unintelligible, she crossed her arms. “I’m serious, Caffrey. You’re sick and you need to go home. There’s nothing more you can do for Peter now. We’ve got this.”

Nothing more he could do for Peter. It sounded so final. Neal knew they’d made their case, and he had a feeling Diana had an ace in the hole if they needed to resort to that – Reese Hughes, maybe – but he hated feeling like he was just giving up and going home. Peter had never given up on him. He wanted to be there to help present their case, to flash a confident smile at anyone it might influence, to show that he really was on the right side of the law with this one.

Most of all, though, he wanted to be there for Peter, as Peter had been there for him. He physically ached with that want, that _need_ , to prove that his loyalty was with Peter and not with James Bennett.

Neal felt a sudden, and very unexpected, wave of panic wash over him. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, and tendrils of blackness started working their way into his peripheral vision. Suddenly sure he was going to pass out, he pushed the chair back away from the table with his feet and doubled over, hoping to get some blood flowing to his head. 

“Neal?” Diana knelt down beside him, her hand firmly gripping his shoulder.

Neal held up a hand to reassure her but waited until the vertigo waned before he spoke. “I, uh, think I need to go home. Not feeling so great.” It took a lot of effort to put the words together.

“That’s what I - ” She stopped abruptly and sighed in frustration. “Stay here and take it easy. I’ll be right back.”

He actually did what he was told, gathering himself and pulling together every last bit of energy he had in reserve. Somehow, he made it to the elevator with Diana, his usual strut reduced to a reckless shuffle. And if she made him sit down in the corner under the camera, neither of them would ever admit it. 

The refreshing, if slightly drizzly, evening air helped to clear the cobwebs from Neal’s head, but it also cut through his open suit jacket, sending chills through his weakened body. He tried to button it as they walked to Diana’s hybrid, but his coordination was gone, and he nearly tripped over a crumbling piece of the sidewalk.

“Neal!” Diana was standing by the open passenger side door, waiting for him. “Come on, get in.”

Just as Neal got himself situated in the passenger seat, another bout of coughing hit him. He coughed until it seemed like all of the air was gone from not just his lungs, but his entire body. His gag reflex threatened to kick in, and he froze abruptly, taking a shaky breath through his nose, his mouth full of the thick and metallic-tasting castoffs of his ailing respiratory system.

“Oh, don’t swallow it, that’s disgusting,” he heard from the driver’s seat. “Spit it out, for god’s sake.” Diana reached across him and opened the door. He leaned out, some part of his subconscious making sure he was clear of the car before he spat everything into the storm drain. It was probably one of the most indelicate things he’d done in his life, but he was once again so close to passing out that he didn’t particularly care.

Diana pulled him back into the seat, nearly crawled over him to close the door, then pulled his seatbelt across him and buckled it. All Neal could do was lay back against the seat, gasping for breath and shaking uncontrollably.

“I should take you to the hospital.”

It sounded like an idle threat, but Neal wasn’t taking any chances. If she took him to the hospital, and they decided to admit him, he wouldn’t get to be there for Peter if they released him the next day. _When_ they released him.

“No. Please.” He tried to force himself to take a few deep breaths, hoping he didn’t sound as awful as he felt. “No hospital.”

“Do you have anything to take? Tylenol? Cold medicine?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. It was mostly a lie; he had some pain relievers somewhere, but he rarely got sick, so he only bought cold medications when he needed them. 

“Is June back from her daughter’s?”

 _Fuck_. “Yesterday.” That one was definitely a lie. June was out of town at least through the weekend, and she’d given the housekeeper a few days off to visit family. Even Mozzie was gone, following up on a possible sighting of James in New Brunswick.

Diana sighed but headed in the direction of Riverside Drive. The rest of the drive was spent in blissful silence, and once his breathing returned to some semblance of normal, Neal nodded off.

“Wake up, Caffrey.”

Neal groaned and forced his eyes open. Diana was staring at him expectantly. “You’re sure you’re going to be alright here?”

The nap helped him sound more convincing. “Of course. It’s me.” He actually managed a half-smile.

Diana nodded. “Keep your phone with you. We’ll let you know where we’re taking Peter when we get him out of there.” _When_ , not if.

“Got it.”

“Can you make it up the stairs?” She wasn’t joking.

“Yeah, I’ll get there. Just need to take some meds and get a lot of sleep.”

“Do that.” She made sure he was making eye contact with her before continuing. “Take care of yourself, Neal. You’ve done what you can for Peter. I’m sure he’d want you to do the same for yourself.”

He looked down at his hands in his lap, not sure what to make of her statement. All he really wanted was to get inside and into bed, but he was hit with a sudden pang of loneliness. “Yeah,” he whispered, fumbling with the seatbelt.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“G’night.” Neal managed to make it out of the car and trudged up the steps to June’s mansion. Though Diana was waiting for him to get safely inside, he didn’t look back. He was terrified that if he did, he’d give in to the weariness, and the part of him that felt so empty would beg her to stay or take him to the hospital. Or take him to Peter’s house, where Elizabeth could care for him. That thought made his stomach lurch into his swollen throat, and he swallowed convulsively, not wanting to be sick in front of Diana.

After making it inside and locking the door behind him, Neal lowered himself to the floor, his hands and face pressed to the cool marble, trying to breathe through the nausea. He was alone in the house, so he didn’t have to keep up the charade any longer. If he wanted, he could even lay there all night. The thought was very tempting, but he knew he’d eventually have to make the long trek up the stairs to his fourth-floor apartment.

Neal had no idea how long he stayed there, only that he awoke some time later to the loud chattering of his teeth. He closed his mouth and clenched his jaw, which only made the shivering spread through his aching upper body. He still felt miserable, but resting had helped to renew his energy just a bit, and he was determined to conquer the stairs.

Peeling himself slowly off the floor, Neal stood, eyes closed and hands on his knees. When that seemed to work, he opened his eyes and made his way through the entryway to the stairs. Knowing there was no one there to see him, he crawled up the stairs on his hands and feet, making it to the third floor before he had to stop to work his way through another coughing fit.

By the time he finally got to his apartment, Neal was once again exhausted, and he was having a hard time catching his breath. Though he was still shaking, he was overheated from exertion – and likely a fever – and he stripped off his jacket. His tie and shirt followed, though that took a bit longer with his strangely uncoordinated fingers getting in the way. His chest ached in a way that he found vaguely disconcerting, but his mind couldn’t decipher why.

He made his way to the bathroom first, wavering a bit on his feet as he searched for the bottle of pain reliever, finally finding it in a basket on the shelf beside the sink. Getting the arrows lined up to remove the cap almost proved to be too complicated for his fumbling hands, but just as he was about to give up and find a hammer, the cap flew off and landed in the sink. He washed two of the pills down, then splashed his face with some of the cold water, gasping as it needled at his overheated skin.

After making his way back to the kitchen on legs that didn’t seem to want to support him, Neal opened the refrigerator and pulled out a container of chicken soup he’d made two nights earlier. He’d been hoping the culinary creation would stimulate his appetite and temporarily distract himself from his obsession with Peter’s case. It had done neither.

Knowing that Peter was likely less than twenty-four hours away from being released – and wanting to be there for him – gave Neal some incentive to at least try to eat. He poured half of the soup into a saucepan and put it on the stove to warm, then got a glass of water and slumped in a chair, gazing out the doors to the terrace. 

Though the fever left him somewhat addled, Neal’s mind tried to work its way through the events of the past week. Sara left for London, choosing a well-deserved job opportunity over a life with him in the clouds. James Bennett – he could no longer think of the man as his father – framed Peter for the murder of Senator Pratt and then refused to turn himself in to authorities. Peter had been taken to prison, and they wouldn’t let Neal see him.

Then there was Elizabeth Burke. She’d been surprisingly temperate toward Neal after Peter’s arrest, though he’d only seen her once. He’d expected her to be furious, especially after she’d been so opposed to Peter’s involvement in the search for the evidence box. She had come to accept the fact, though, that Peter wanted to be involved, and that he wasn’t going to back down. All she’d said to Neal was that it wasn’t his fault, and that the only thing on her mind was being there for Peter.

Neal hadn’t been sure what to make of her response. His first thought was that she must have been in shock when she spoke to him. He’d always been close to El, but she was Peter’s wife first and foremost, and she was fiercely protective of him. Neal had avoided her since that first conversation, and she hadn’t made any effort to contact him in the days since.

The soup was soon ready, but as Neal’s trembling hands poured it into a bowl, he was suddenly sure he wouldn’t be able to eat any of it. He sat at the table, pushing the bits of chicken and thin noodles around in the broth with his spoon. The nausea was unbearable, though he doubted it had anything to do with his illness.

Every thought that flashed through his mind made him want to vomit. Elizabeth sitting at home alone. Sara moving on, putting an ocean between them. James Bennett’s last statement to him. _Don’t make me do something I’ll regret._

Peter in handcuffs. In prison. In orange scrubs.

Neal couldn’t breathe. He pushed himself away from the table, knocking his water glass over in the process, and struggled to get to his feet. He needed air. He needed help. He needed someone.

He needed Peter Burke.

Neal struggled to open the terrace doors with fingers that just wouldn’t cooperate. The damp evening air felt refreshing, but it did little to help him catch his breath. His heart raced in a chest that felt like it was on fire. He doubled over, hands on his knees, trying desperately to get his respirations under control.

Finally, mercifully, he was able to draw a shallow breath, and then another. He dropped to his knees, his fingertips pressed to the terrace floor. It was too little, too late; his vision dimmed, and there was a loud ringing in his ears. Neal tried to push himself up, to get back inside, but his whole body felt numb. He pitched forward, his forehead hitting the floor before the rest of him followed. As terrifying as it was, the darkness was a welcome relief from the pain he’d been feeling, and he allowed it to take him away.

\-------------

A soft, lukewarm rain briefly brought Neal back to consciousness. He had no idea how long he’d been out of it, but it was now dark outside, and the city had settled into its nighttime rhythm. His hair was plastered to his head, and his clothes were soaked through. Though it didn’t seem especially cold outside, Neal was freezing, his whole body shaking so hard that his muscles ached.

He knew he had to make it inside and get warmed up, but when he tried to push himself up, his arms and legs wouldn’t cooperate. Panic started rising in his burning chest, and a brief surge of adrenaline propelled him to his hands and knees. There was a loud ringing in his ears as he started crawling slowly back to the door.

Just as Neal made it to the doorway, the ragged gasps coming from his chest turned into a coughing jag that stopped him in his tracks. As happened in the car, he brought up a vile mucus that ran from his open mouth as his head hung down. His eyes were closed so tightly that he never noticed the change when the blackness overtook him. He collapsed through the doorway, half in and half out of the apartment, and succumbed to the nothingness once again.

\------------

_Neal? Are you..._

Distant. Familiar.

 _Neal!_ Closer this time. _Jesus Christ. Diana, call an ambulance!_ Loud. Too loud.

A hand, heavy on his shoulder. Shaking his mostly-numb body. 

_Neal? Can you hear me?_ The hand moved to his face. _Jesus, Neal._

The voice filled his heart with longing, though his mind couldn’t quite connect it to a name. He thought he might be safe now.

_Tell them to hurry._

Movement. He felt disconnected from everything, but he had a sense of being rolled onto his back, and then the hands were making their way over him. His head, his neck, his chest, lingering on his wrist.

 _Still warm…_ The words faded in and out. _He's breathing…pulse…oh, god…Neal, please._

Closer now, next to his face. A rhythmic mantra.

_Hang on, Neal. Just hang on. They’ll be here soon. You’ll be…_

Then nothing.

\-------------

Wailing. A siren. Something on his face, over his nose and mouth. It felt as out-of-place as he did. His arms were too heavy. Something – someone – was gripping one of his hands.

 _Come on, Neal._ The mantra again, close to his ear. _Safe now…almost there…please…_

The voice was comforting, but there was something wrong about it. It was deeper, thicker, faltering. He wanted to open his eyes, to see who was there, to show them he was alive. Something pricked at him, once, twice, cutting through the numbness. His arm twitched, and he managed a low groan.

 _Neal? We hear you. I’m here._ The hand gripping his tightened, a thumb stroking against his own.

 _Response to stimuli…_ Another voice. _Pulse ox is…_ Droning and clinical, not one he recognized, fading in and out. _Bilateral coarse rales…_ The crackling of a radio.

He tried to shut it out, tried to ignore the siren, wanted only to hear the familiar voice. He concentrated on it and willed his eyes to open. A thread of light worked its way in through the curtain, and then another.

_He’s trying to open his eyes. Neal? Neal!_

A stop, and then he was moving again, into a clinical brightness where noise and commotions surrounded him.

 _I can’t leave him._ The familiar voice, restrained, but just barely. _I need to stay with him. Please._

As he drifted toward the darkness again, it finally registered with him.

Peter.

\-------------

The first thing Neal became aware of was that he felt better than he had all week, mostly pain-free and a bit airy. Breathing seemed easier, though there was something in his nose. He wanted to lift a hand to brush it away, but there was a dull ache in the back of one hand, and someone was holding the other one. 

He opened his eyes slowly and was greeted by the cream-colored walls of a hospital room – and by Peter Burke, dozing in a chair next to the bed, one of his hands wrapped loosely around Neal’s. There was an IV needle in the back of his other hand, tethering it to a bag hanging from a stand behind the bed.

Neal’s gaze returned to Peter. There was a trace of a furrow in his brow, but he looked otherwise untroubled, and more importantly, he was safe. There were no fading bruises on his face, no cuts or bandages that he could see. Nothing that suggested Peter had been assaulted in prison. He didn’t know if it was relief or the meds, but he was struck by the notion that Peter’s tall, athletic frame stretched out in peaceful repose was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.

Breathing gingerly through a sudden surge of emotion, Neal tightened his hand around Peter’s fingers. The other man stirred, then awoke with a start.

“Neal! Oh, thank god.” He squeezed Neal’s fingers and stood, reaching across Neal with his other hand to press the call button beside the bed. “Welcome back.” His voice was rough, his eyes relieved but welling with tears that he blinked away quickly. His free hand went to Neal’s forehead, brushing back an errant lock of hair. 

Neal wanted to reply, but his mouth and throat were parched. He swallowed and tried to speak anyway, Peter’s name slipping over his lips in a whisper that he wasn’t sure was even audible.

“I’m here, Neal. They said to call when you woke up, and they’d bring some water.”

As if waiting for that cue, the door opened, and a nurse breezed in with a pitcher of water and a cup. She put them on the bedside table and started typing things into a computer on a rolling stand by the windows.

“Mr. Caffrey, I’m Brenda, and I’ll be your nurse until six.” She glanced at him, then at the monitor above his head, before typing something else into the computer. “You’ve been cleared to try some water, and if you can handle that, we’ll see about getting you something a little more substantial for lunch in a few hours.”

She poured some of the water into the cup, then produced a wrapped straw from the pocket of her scrubs, which she put into the cup before offering it to him. “I know you’re thirsty, but take very small sips”

Neal did as he was told, taking a few tentative sips. The water was cool and refreshing, and he thought for a moment that it was one of the best things he’d ever tasted. As he drank a bit more, he became aware of Peter’s thumb brushing over his own. It felt familiar, but he couldn’t piece together why.

“Okay, let’s stop there for now.” Brenda put the cup on the table and smiled at him. “Let me update your vitals, and then I’ll give your doctor a call. He’ll explain your condition and answer any questions you might have.”

 _Condition?_ He nodded slowly and looked to Peter, who was watching him closely, his expression unreadable. Neal looked away, suddenly self-conscious.

When the nurse left, Neal cleared his throat gently and scrutinized the needle in the back of his hand. “What happened?” His voice was so raspy that it startled him.

“Well, I’ll let the doctor go into the details, but you have pneumonia, for starters.” Neal looked up sharply, and Peter nodded. “Bacterial, I think they said, but not one that’s contagious. They said it was, um…” Peter paused, looking down at their hands. “It was made worse by the fact that you were exhausted, dehydrated, and – and hadn’t been eating?” He sounded like he couldn’t quite make sense of his own words. When he continued, his voice was low and vulnerable.

“After I was released, I tried to call, but you didn’t answer your phone. Diana said you’d been sick. I found you on the terrace. You were…” Peter’s jaw clenched, and he barely managed to swallow something that resembled a sob. It startled Neal, badly. His voice was wavering when he continued. “Your lips were blue. Neal, I thought - ” _You were dead._ The unspoken words made Neal shiver. Peter ducked his head, his eyes closed, a blush spreading up his neck. Neal could see the muscles twitching in the older man’s jaw. 

“Peter, I’m so sorry.” He wanted to say more, but his brain was having a hard time finding the words. 

Peter breathed deeply and shook his head. When he finally looked up, true to form, his composure had returned. His eyes locked on Neal’s. “You shouldn’t be. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

Neal gaped at him. “What? No. You can’t – that’s just. Why?” 

Peter smiled, and Neal found it incredibly comforting. “You’re not very articulate when you’re drugged up like this.”

“Yeah, well I’m glad. That you’re amused, I mean.” This only caused Peter’s grin to widen. Neal ran a hand down over his face, being careful not to pull on the IV line. His other hand was still wrapped in Peter’s. Finally, he managed a small smile of his own, weary but genuine. He was trying to find the words to press Peter about what he’d said, but the doctor chose that moment to arrive.

Neal’s prognosis was actually better than he’d expected. The doctor confirmed that he had pneumonia, but that it was responding very well to the intravenous antibiotics and fluids. As soon as he could eat and keep down solid foods, he’d be discharged, though he’d have to return for a follow-up chest x-ray and testing to make sure he was staying hydrated and well-fed.

After bombarding Neal with more information than he could absorb and answering Peter’s numerous questions, the doctor left them alone again. Though Neal wanted to ask Peter about what he’d said earlier, he was suddenly too exhausted.

“Hey, looks like you’re checking out.” Peter reached over to pull the sheet and blanket up over Neal’s chest. “I know I’m not a pretty nurse, but do you need anything else?”

Neal attempted a less taxing version of his trademark grin and gave a slight shake of his head. “No, you’re not. And I’m good.” 

Peter patted his shoulder. “Perfect. Get some rest.”

“Peter, can you…” His eyelids felt way too heavy, and the words were leaving him again. “Stay? Until…”

Peter gave him a sympathetic smile. “Of course. Now go to sleep.”

Though it certainly wasn’t the way he expected the day of Peter’s release to go, Neal couldn’t help feeling thankful. Peter was out of prison and safe, and he hadn’t shown any bitterness about what had happened. The two of them had gotten to see each other, and Neal was finally starting to feel better. Smiling to himself, he drifted off.

\-------------

“Are you sure you don’t want some more eggs?” Elizabeth Burke hovered over Neal at the table, trying to disguise her concern as hospitality. 

“Thank you, but I think I’ve had too many already.” Neal leaned back in the chair and rested his hands on his full stomach. He’d been through a plate full of eggs, bacon, and toast, and most of a glass of orange juice. There was absolutely no way his digestive system, still re-adjusting to eating normal meals, would be able to handle any more. “I promise, I’m just really full.”

“Okay, but if you change your mind…” She trailed off as she took his dish to the sink.

“You’ll be the first to know.”

Neal was still surprised at how quickly things seemed to return to some semblance of normalcy after the events of the past two weeks. At El’s insistence, Peter brought Neal to their house after he was discharged from the hospital so they could take turns looking after him. He’d spent most of the first two days sleeping in the guest room and eating bland foods, but by the third day, the restlessness and renewed energy brought him downstairs. By the time Friday rolled around, a full week since Peter had found him on the terrace, he was actually starting to feel like himself again, and the big breakfast was a welcome change. 

Peter had already left for another day of statements and hearings at the bureau, leaving Neal alone with Elizabeth. Since Neal had been so tired, the two of them hadn’t yet spoken about what happened – to him or to Peter.

Elizabeth sighed and motioned for him to join her in the living room. He sat on the sofa, where he’d been spending a good bit of time over the past few days, and she sat down beside him.

“So, I could really use your help with something.”

Neal felt the first tendrils of apprehension starting to work their way into his stomach, but he forced a smile. “Anything.”

“There’s a really big elephant in this room, and I was hoping you could help me get rid of it.”

Neal’s smile widened, and he looked away briefly before returning his gaze to hers. “I noticed it, too. It’s probably a good idea to kick it out before it starts buying new curtains and rearranging your furniture.”

El couldn’t help laughing, and she took his hand in hers. Though it felt very different, it reminded him of waking up in the hospital to find Peter holding his hand.

“Neal, I’m not even sure where to start. I didn’t know what to make of it when I didn’t hear from you last week. My thoughts were with Peter first, of course, but I was worried about you, too.”

Neal looked down at their hands. “I didn’t figure you’d want to have much to do with me.” His voice was still weak from his illness, but he suspected it wouldn’t have been any stronger even if he’d been completely healthy. “You warned me about getting Peter involved. I just…didn’t want to do this without him. I had no idea…” 

“Oh, sweetie, this wasn’t your fault. Don’t you ever think that, not for a second.” She gently tilted his chin up so his eyes met hers. “No one is blaming you for what James did to Peter. And my husband was involved because that’s what he wanted. You didn’t force him. He knew the risks, but he wanted justice, and he wanted to know the truth – for you, and for Reese, and even for himself, I think. None of us had any way of knowing what was going to happen.”

She shook her head, and a pained look flitted across her face. “I was so focused on Peter after what happened, and I’ll admit that I had to sort things out in my heart first. I wanted to reach out to you, but I wasn’t sure how you were feeling about all of this, so I decided to give you some space. That was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

Neal stared at her, completely shocked. “Elizabeth, no. I - ”

“I did talk to Diana,” El interrupted, her voice even softer this time. “Neal, she told me how hard you were working on Peter’s case. She said she’d never seen you so focused, so driven to make things right.” She cocked her head at him and smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “You know, I think she was actually impressed with you.”

Neal returned a relieved smile. “Yeah, first time for everything, I guess.”

Elizabeth let out a small laugh, but then her expression sobered. “It really meant a lot to me that you did so much to help clear Peter’s name. Knowing how much you put into it, even while you were dealing with what happened with James and with being so ill, just shows the kind of friend you’ve become. You did everything you could for Peter when he needed you most, and neither of us will ever forget that.”

Neal swallowed hard and tried to blink away the tears in his eyes. This definitely wasn’t the way he’d expected the conversation to go. His chest ached, more from the emotions than the remnants of pneumonia. He wanted to say something to acknowledge El’s forgiveness, but he knew he’d lose control if he did.

El, being El, noticed his struggle and started running a consoling hand across his upper back. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice faltering.

“Neal,” she said softly, “it’s okay to let go sometimes. It’s okay to _feel_.”

She pulled him into a gentle hug, enveloping him with a compassion he hadn’t expected, and he finally broke down. Everything he’d bottled up since Ellen’s death came pouring out in quiet but gut-wrenching sobs. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried so hard, and a part of him wanted to be embarrassed, but Elizabeth’s response made it impossible to feel anything but loved. She held him close, one of her hands stroking the back of his head, an occasional soothing noise escaping her lips. At one point, he thought she may have even been crying with him.

By the time the tears finally tapered off, he was completely spent. El helped him lay down on the couch, putting the biggest of the throw pillows under his head and covering him with the blanket he’d been using for his naps. She went to the kitchen and returned with a damp cloth, which she used to wipe his face. 

Neal tried to mumble his thanks, but he wasn’t sure if what came out was actually coherent. Elizabeth just nodded and told him to go to sleep, and he surrendered to the exhaustion, closing his eyes and drifting away.

\-------------

That evening, after a shower and dinner, a refreshed Neal joined Peter at the table on the Burke’s patio. The days of hearings had taken their toll on Peter, and he’d decided to forego his usual evening beer in favor of a rather generously-poured tumbler of Scotch with just a splash of water.

Neal frowned at his own cup of herbal tea, then eyed Peter’s drink longingly. “Really, Peter?”

“What?” The grin dancing at the corners of Peter’s mouth belied his innocence. “I needed something a little stronger after the couple of weeks I’ve had. Is there a problem?”

Neal rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “That’s Macallan 18.” He’d seen the bottle and had briefly considered spiking his tea with it.

“It is. Figured it was time to break out the good stuff.”

“You know, this would probably be considered torture in some parts of the world.”

“Well, I’m glad this isn’t one of them.” To drive the point home, Peter took a long sip, wincing slightly as it went down. “Ah, that’s perfect. And don’t be such a malcontent.”

“Don’t use words like that when you’re drinking and I’m medicated. It makes my brain hurt.”

Peter chuckled and leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Hmm. You think you’ll be ready for Monday?”

Neal had been trying not to think about his return to work. He knew he’d be in for some of the same grilling that Peter had dealt with, and he’d have to explain everything from why Peter removed his tracking anklet to how the contents of the evidence box ended up at his apartment.

“I don’t really have a choice.”

Peter glanced over at him. “I tried to clear everything up for them, but they’ll still want your side of the story.” He paused for another sip of Scotch. “I won’t lie to you. The questioning will be intense, but the future of our partnership is riding on the results of their investigation.”

Neal looked away. “And you haven’t met the temporary handler yet?”

Peter shook his head. “All I know is that they want to bring in someone from outside who wasn’t involved with the evidence box. They were fine with letting Diana do it while I wasn’t there, but now that I’m back…” He trailed off, absently running his index finger around the rim of the tumbler.

“OPR has turned Manhattan White Collar into one of Moz’s conspiracy theories?”

“Yeah, something like that.” A pensive smile spread across his face.

“So what do we do?”

Peter shrugged. “We do everything we’ve been doing. Work hard, close cases, back it up with convictions, and show them that they can trust us to work as a team again. Keep our noses clean and stay away from the off-book stuff. Even after this investigation is over, we’ll still be on their radar, probably for a long time.” He sipped at his whisky again, a faraway look in his eyes.

Neal took a deep breath and let it out in an abject sigh. “Peter, I – the way things turned out – I’m sorry.” His mind scrambled for the right words, but his heart wasn’t providing them. “If I’d known, I – I just wish – shit.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“You’re putting me in a unique spot here,” Peter said with a smile. “It’s rare to see you at such a loss for words. Part of me wants to bail you out, but another part wants to savor this moment.” He gave Neal a sideways glance. “I have some apologizing of my own to do, though.”

That got Neal’s attention; he flashed back to the day he woke up in the hospital. “I’m still not quite sure I understand that.”

Peter sat up in his chair and turned to face Neal. He took larger swallow of the liquid courage in front of him, groaning appreciatively, and Neal wished he could do the same.

“Look, from a professional standpoint, I’m your handler – _was_ your handler. I will be again. But on a more personal note, I’m your friend. Before all of this went down, you implied that we’re like family to you.”

He paused, and Neal nodded. Peter gave him a matter-of-fact look. “I think we got kind of distracted from being there for you during the week I was - ” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “During that week. You were going through a lot, too. Did anyone ever actually stop to ask you how you were doing?”

Neal knew it wasn’t a rhetorical question, but it was one he didn’t want to answer. “Peter, you were in prison. There was a good reason I wasn’t very high on the priorities list.”

Peter shook his head and frowned, his brow furrowing deeply. “We were so focused on my case that we lost sight of everything else. I should have checked up on you more, had Diana make sure you were taking care of yourself, something – anything.”

“I didn’t need a babysitter,” Neal muttered into his teacup.

“Yeah, when we found you, you were unconscious and suffering from pneumonia, dehydration, malnutrition, and exhaustion. You wanna try again?”

Neal stared down into the cup and gave a slight shake of his head.

“It shouldn’t have gotten to that point, Neal,” Peter continued. “I’m sorry that it did.”

Neal looked up to find Peter staring at him, a strange combination of shame and sincerity on his face. The uncertainty he’d been feeling started to dissipate, and he gave Peter a small smile. “Thanks, Peter.”

Relieved, Peter returned the smile, but it faded quickly. “There’s something else.” He took another drink and sighed. “I’m sorry that things didn’t work out with James.”

“I’m not - ”

Peter cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t. I know that you wanted him in your life. I know you hoped that what was in that box would clear his name. You put a great deal of time and energy into this whole thing, you accepted him and gave him your help and your trust – and he conned you. He conned all of us, more than once.

“Look, you have every right to be pissed off. I get that. But you also have every right to be hurt. He let you down when you were a kid, and now he let you down again, right after you lost Ellen. It’s something you need to deal with, because if you don’t, it will eat at you from the inside until there’s nothing left. I’ve seen it happen, and I’m not going to let it happen to you. El and I are here for you, and I’ll get you whatever other help you need. Hell, I’ll go with you if that’s what you want. Anything to keep you from ending up - ” The rest of the sentence stuck in Peter’s throat, and he stood and walked to the other side of the patio, running his fingertips over his lips.

Neal watched him closely, touched by Peter’s obviously strong feelings about his well-being. After taking a moment to gather himself, Peter sat back down and took a sip of Scotch, then thought better of it and took another. He reached across the table and squeezed Neal’s forearm with his other hand.

“Neal, I am truly, _truly_ sorry that you’ve had to deal with all of this. I’ll tell you what I’m not sorry for, though.” He pointed the index finger of his free hand at Neal for emphasis. “I’m not sorry for what this situation has shown us.” Neal raised his eyebrows, and Peter smiled. “What you did for me – all of the work you put in – proves that you’re not like him at all. You fought for justice, for what was right, and you have no idea how proud that makes me.”

Neal stared into Peter’s eyes, stunned. _Proud._ The word settled into his heart and made it swell. He blinked a few times to clear his suddenly blurry vision, and a smile spread slowly across his face. It wasn’t his usual high-wattage grin but a shy and genuine one. He stood and motioned for Peter to do the same, then pulled the surprised man into a hug.

“Thank you, Peter. Just…thank you.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” Peter said as he pulled back gave Neal a quick wink. “Never thought _I’d_ have to come to _you_ for help getting out of prison.”

“Hey, I had to do something. I mean, really, Peter. Orange prison scrubs? That couldn’t have been a good look on you.”

Peter groaned, but a smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Tell me about it. And the food. Now I know why you’re such a connoisseur of wine and fine dining.” He broke into a sly grin. “You want to know my favorite part of being back home, though? Other than El, I mean.” Neal raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Two words: bathroom doors.”

Neal chuckled and grabbed his tea cup, raising it for a toast. “To bathroom doors.”

“And the privacy that comes with them,” Peter added, clinking his glass against Neal’s cup.

“Now can I have some of that?” Neal gestured at the tumbler.

“Oh no. El would kick my ass, and that is not something you want to see. Trust me.” Peter considered him for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently at the stubble on his chin. “Since we’ve both been through so much, I’ll make you a deal. That bottle is still almost full. When you’re done with your meds and you’re feeling better, and when things have calmed down at the bureau, we’ll pick a night, and I’ll race you to the bottom of the bottle.”

“Really?”

Peter nodded and stuck out his hand. “Promise. And I keep mine.”

Neal shook the proffered hand. “I know you do.” He cocked his head at Peter, considering him for a moment. “Are you a happy drunk? I’d bet you are, and I’m usually right about this.”

“I am,” Peter answered, but before he could elaborate, the back door opened and Elizabeth stepped out onto the patio. She looked happy to see them so relaxed.

“What are you boys up to?”

“Peter was just telling me that he’s a happy drunk.”

El gave Peter a puzzled look before turning her attention to Neal. “Well, Peter rarely gets drunk. His tolerance for alcohol is astronomical. But yes, he’s a happy drunk – and a musical drunk.”

“El…”

“Wait, musical? You mean Peter sings?” Neal’s wide eyes looked from Elizabeth to Peter and back again. 

“Oh, he sings beautifully, but it’s something I don’t get to hear very often.”

“You’re kidding!” Neal gaped at Peter. “Tell me it’s something like Broadway show tunes.”

“No, mostly classic rock. Journey, The Eagles, stuff like that.” She shrugged and ran a hand down Peter’s arm, then mercifully changed the subject. “Are you two ready for some cheesecake?”

“Mmm, sounds wonderful,” Peter said, turning to glance at Neal. “And fattening.”

El nodded, and her gaze fell on Neal as well. “That’s the point.”

“I need to freshen this up anyway,” Peter held up his glass and smiled knowingly at Neal.

“So there’s less in the bottle for next time?”

“You know me too well.”

“Will you sing ‘Open Arms’ for me?”

“Dammit, Neal. No. Absolutely not.” Peter sighed and downed the rest of his Scotch.

Elizabeth shook her head at them and went back inside. Neal started to follow but stopped when Peter didn’t budge. The older man tilted his head back and squinted up at the sky, inhaling deeply through his nose, his chest puffed out. He closed his eyes as he exhaled, then opened them and looked over at Neal with an easy smile.

“Smells like freedom?” Neal returned the smile.

“Smells like Brooklyn, and right about now, yeah – that smells exactly like freedom to me.”

Peter took one last look around, then put a hand on Neal’s shoulder and walked with him into the house.

***


End file.
